Page:Vida's Art of Poetry.djvu/76

 The dreadful clang of clashing arms we hear; The agonizing groan, the fruitless pray'r, And shrieks of suppliants thicken on the ear. Who, when he reads a city storm'd, forbears To feel her woes, and sympathize in tears? When o'er the palaces the flames aspire From wall to wall, and wrap the domes in fire. The sire, with years and hostile rage oppressed! The starting infant, clinging to the breast! The trembling mother runs, with piercing cries Thro' friends and foes, and shrieking rends the skies. Drag'd from the altar, the distracted fair, Beats her white breast, and tears her golden hair. Here in thick crowds the vanquisht fly away, There the proud victors heap the wealthy prey; With rage relentless ravage their abodes, Nor spare the sacred temples of the gods. O'er the whole town they run with wild affright, Tumultuous haste, and violence of flight.


 * should I mention how our souls aspire,

Lost in the raptures of the sacred fire?